


The View from the Windowless Seat

by marryfuckkillhanniballecter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Diary/Journal, Drabble, Drabble Collection, M/M, Prison, Season 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 04:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12926997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marryfuckkillhanniballecter/pseuds/marryfuckkillhanniballecter
Summary: "And since there's honestly no one I can trust, I can trust a journal."These are just ramblings from Will's mind. It first starts when he's incarcerated at the BSHCI but who knows! Warning: Expect hannigram, expect ratings to go through the roof because that's just how I roll. Hope you enjoy the flight (:





	The View from the Windowless Seat

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, unwanted

So yeah, hello... Uhm. Alana once said it would probably be a good idea keeping a journal, that it would ground my thoughts and let me have a better control of my life, and I've been postponing and postponing and oh look where we are now! Plenty of time to do whatever. Well, not exactly whatever but you know what I mean. I know what I mean. And since there's honestly no one I can trust, I can trust a journal. Although it is kinda weird not writing on paper, it is what it is. Because, if you haven't noticed, yeah, we're in prison, son. And we get no pointy-object privileges. So after some talking with one or two or three mental health professionals, they handed me over an old tablet. No internet, no nothing. Just fucking old me and freecell. And I'm done with freecell. Alright, I suppose... Wait, what do you do in a journal? I never kept any... I felt like it from time to time but "oh no that shit's for girls bro". Guess what, "bro"? It doesn't matter now... Am I supposed to write about my feelings? Am I supposed to write pretty poetry to appease my handsome Frederick since he could be reading this (even though they said they wouldn't?). I mean, I could be giving them a plateful of evidence, digging my own grave, handing them their next bestseller but you know what? If anything, I've got nothing to lose. May these be ramblings of a madman, whatever they wanna call. Because I feel fine. Oh boy do I feel fine. It's been day 50-something, night and day begin to blur and nothing fucking matters. But then Hannibal comes, we chit chat and I can just smell it. Smell the pristine golden chocolate box full of worms. I can see the cracks. I'm exactly where he wanted me to be and I understand. I get it now. I wouldn't have time to think otherwise. Not with classes, appointments, the illusion of a social life. I do miss them though... I know Alana is taking care of the dogs but... This is it. I know what I need to do. I talk to them and they see me. They understand. I trust them and they trust me. So maybe I should write as if I'm talking to them... God knows I talk to myself enough, why not write? Because thoughts flee from my mind but words stick to paper like Hannibal's tendrils, disgusting inky oily influence through the minds of others. Except this isn't paper so I can always start again. I'm trying not to because I think it'd defeat the purpose but... I can start again. Like I've started again so many times. I have yet another chance. If Hannibal wanted me to puke an ear, by god now I have enough time to puke two. Three. A fucking head on a platter. My head. His head. Every goddamn motherfucker's head. Everyone. But I don't seek revenge, you know me. No. I just wanna go back to my family... Winston took so long to adjust to our lives, the poor thing... Oh well... I needed time to think and I have it, plenty. I have had plenty. But now it's time to build, to make ends meet, to see through the veil of darkness. I don't care about tiptoeing anymore, I want to dip in. I can see through his mask. And they should too. They will. But beyond the mask there's nothing new. It's the same old him, same old Hannibal. Dr. Lecter and Hannibal are one and the same. Dr. Lecter, Hannibal, the Chesapeake Ripper, first of his name, king of bullshit and fancy ham. But he's more. He's more than this. He's more than all of this... He's beyond this world, he's beyond this plane, he's suspended... and he only flies down and nests if he thinks you're worth it and... Maybe I'm worth it?


End file.
